


Watching You for Love

by mika60



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: DJ Sakusa, M/M, Religious Imagery, Sensual Dancing, Timeline Divergence, lots of musical terms, not a songfic but plenty of vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mika60/pseuds/mika60
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi covertly moonlights as a DJ in Osaka.His secret doesn't last for long.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 36
Kudos: 238





	Watching You for Love

**Author's Note:**

> So this basically happened because I listen to a ton of electronica/synth-pop and recently noticed how often the genre is actually used in [volleyball highlight videos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ncQ2tKtEdDw). Please forgive the self-indulgence.
> 
> [I also sketched Kiyoomi in action to hopefully help with the visual](https://twitter.com/_mika60_/status/1301988306889175040) (Might make it more finished in a future date).
> 
> It’s not meant to be a songfic, but I highly, highly recommend listening to the song that inspired it all at a certain part of the story. There will be links pointing to specific timestamps in-text :)
> 
> **ETA: Apparently this was the 1,000th fic in the SakuAtsu AO3 tag! Wow. Congrats to the fandom and cheers to everyone who contributed to this madness!!**

_I. Cue & Play _ _  
_ _Track 1 << >> Track 2 _

_Avoure - Aura [Original Mix]_ | 8:41 | ⊴ ▶️ ⊵ |  
Y.B.S.M. - _SKS [Melodic Jackal Mix]_ | 9:39 | ⊴ ▶️ ⊵ |  
_Vitodito & David Folkebrant - Cadiz [Original Mix] _ | 7:27 | ⊴ ▶️ ⊵ |  
_After Earth - Ben Böhmer_ | 7:37 | ⊴ ▶️ ⊵ |  
  


Letters radiate from a laptop screen, trumpeting the introduction of another 3-hour marathon.

Kiyoomi appreciates this Osakan nightclub for not being a madhouse of sensory overloads; its blessed lack of headache-inducing strobe lights, streaks of dizzying neon, or overwhelming whiffs of smoke. There are only the buzzing shadows of bodies, a forest of feet sinking in with the constant of the bass register. Four on the floor, unspooled limbs in the air, backspins that drive the troubles of the day away.

The beats that melt into the night contradict those volatile rhythms of the court, combating his senses with redundancies that ground him again - whisper subconscious reassurance that scoring on only six out of ten kills _is_ , somehow, still perfection in this other dreamscape. Even through physical and mental fatigue, Kiyoomi knows he needs this nourishment, to feed on jolts of electricity flickering above ambient pulses, and combusting chords resembling remixes of audience cheers. In this crowd below him, they clamor not for minus but rather downtempo, and his alter ego's moniker shapes their screams.

_SKS, SKS, SKS…!_

The same three-letter acronym is emblazoned on his mask in thick, loud font face, stamping alternate identity onto the silky paper of his skin. It frees him to twist equalizer knobs with precision, bending volume and vibe to seraphic will.

From his isolated pulpit two levels up, Sakusa Kiyoomi has remained as nameless as his worshipers for weeks upon months, his towering height concealed by distorted perspective and the sheer veil of darkness. Under such anonymity lies a court where he controls all rhythm, raking fertile ground for beats to seed and blossom. He doesn’t consider himself a deity - would much rather stride away from such a notion - but the musical authority afforded by such a title still proves enticing.

But of course, divinity has never coexisted with stealth, especially not when certain renegades slither through double doors to join his sermons.

Tonight’s renegade is new but dangerously familiar, despite the uncharacteristic mask obscuring his face. Even then, he is blasts of sunshine bedazzling the nightfall, attracting all the writhing planets around him into enchanted orbits. 

_Goddammit._ Between taps of performance pads, Kiyoomi slides the top edge of his mask over his nose bridge for another miniscule distance. Futile, perhaps, but even the smallest act of self-preservation has always been part of his routine, especially within the vicinity of the one squeezing through the audience - _his_ audience - right now. Even the digits protruding through his gloves now feel too exposed, and he suddenly misses the finger tapes that always guarantee some level of protection.

Then again, Miya Atsumu is no mere renegade - he is a demon who revels in another type of worship, a nightmare masquerading as savior, causing disruptions to the current track with his own half-beat echoes.

His teammate’s presence is unexpected, and most unwelcome. Kiyoomi tries to concentrate and cue the next song, an original creation [ _Spitfire - SKS_ | 6:43] only existing on his private playlist. Four bars later, the two tracks begin to chant at each other, communicating like two players through a dialogue of sub bass-layered kicks.

_Why the hell are you here?_

_Why the hell not?_

Devilish honey eyes, watching him, observing him - somehow more luminescent than any of the occasional glow sticks zooming through the crowd.

Kiyoomi drags his neck downward to refocus, to pretend he still retains absolute control of his audience. But he knows - he _knows_ \- that too many are drawn to someone else now: that demon mingling amongst them, his body and speech effortlessly performing their spells.

Nevertheless, Kiyoomi’s same rituals pass into the night, until those three hours conclude with no sober good-byes. He slips away wordlessly at the end, into a realm where he hopes his truths are still camouflaged by darkness.

But it is not an alternate universe, and come daytime, Kiyoomi relegates back to the role of professional athlete, with repetitions of a different kind vibrating across his tendons. 

And when a grinning Miya Atsumu innocently hums a tune - his _Spitfire_ tune - as he strolls past in the locker room. He reconfirms his presence from last night as more than a mere mirage, leaving Sakusa Kiyoomi’s covert operations compromised.

_S-K-S._ Smug lips that plague him with nicknames now spell out three fateful letters, with no sound at all.

_Fucking hell._

_II.Tempo Slide_ _  
_ _Track 1 ⇩ Track 2 ⇧_

  
  


Just like years ago, Miya Atsumu is the cacophonous drop he never sees coming.

It sneaks up on Kiyoomi over time, embedding unfriendly pitches into a trying mind. Contrary to his past fascinations - Wakatoshi, Tsukasa - however, the initial revelation does not happen through any in-person meetings, much less matches.

The obsession begins around the end of 2nd year, when Komori introduces him to compilation videos on YouTube, starring the greatest volleyball players in the world. That first night, he watches 36 in one sitting - some a few times over - until the algorithm autofills all his recommendations with another dozen more. The clips are addictive, feeding him convincing gospels through the swings of limbs. But to Kiyoomi’s surprise, the layers of hypnotic notes that provide background harmony ring just as holy, bringing further degrees of richness to powerful plays.

The soundwaves that make contact with his eardrums counter his aversion to touch, somehow. They’re tangible yet intangible, with no permanence yet still memorable. Each track, one seamlessly connected to the next, reminds him of how he must exist in the memories of others - an ongoing beat, relentless yet consistent from play to play.

Finding connection, Kiyoomi searches for names written in the music credits, clicks on another hundred videos, and encounters demigods who deliver providence through their turntables.

_Progressive House. Trance. EDM. Ambient. Chillwave._

Foreign terms, hours-long mixes - and most end up awfully displeasing to his ears. But those with soft, melodic lines and consistent synth beats gradually become the soundtrack to his dreams. The occasional lyrics are as simple and straightforward as his daily thoughts, and each resonant arch of a sung note bends smoothly, but turns abruptly - deeply akin to the spikes he has mastered since childhood.

_Avoure. RÜFÜS DU SOL. Claptone. Massane. Artche. Blackgummy._

His playlist grows, bizarre names and symbols stacking atop one another, like building blocks of a new haven.

Third year arrives, and appreciation begins to take a second seat to the idea of creation. Kiyoomi suckles through bags and bags of umeboshi as he browses through more videos of a different ilk - _Mixing Techniques for Beginner DJs, How to Perfect Transitional Loops, Music Production 101_ \- while ordering equipment from dependable websites and lurking on insider forums.

It’s another volleyball he must wall drill to deflation, another thousand-piece puzzle he must complete, another pet he must handle with care. With the same fervent ambition, he learns to turn the flexibility of his hands into that of a benevolent architect, gathering those building blocks of inspiration and knowledge to arrange new, lush structures of sound.

_Create a Soundcloud Account Today!_

His browser lands on this message time and again, but Kiyoomi fails at the first step attempt after attempt. “Username,” the field requests - and is left blank for hours as he tries to think of something creative.

He has never been good with words.

“Sa-Ku-Sa-kun! Are you paying attention?” The history teacher calls one morning during one of his musical daydreams, a shrill voice enunciating every syllable of his name with distinction.

_Oh._

_DJ SKS._ He finally types into the empty field later that day, lowering the virtual walls shielding profile edits and media uploads.

For the rest of his high school days Kiyoomi experiments, and improves, and publishes. In due time, there are comments gushing all over his remixes, but even more feedback sprinkle across the timestamps of his original tracks.

The college routine plays out like this: 6 hours in the classroom, 4 hours in the gymnasium, 4 hours in the makeshift studio of his dorm, 8 hours in bed, fill in the rest.

The constant juxtaposition of volleyball and producing sparks nostalgia in his head, as well as an idea perhaps only applicable to himself. The highlights compilation video channel still exists - has accumulated over a million subscribers by now - so he finds the contact details for the owner, registers a new email address under his shorter alias, and forwards his Soundcloud account link, along with a simple message.

A reply arrives within 2 hours.

_Always thrilled to be in touch with a long-time fan!_

_The original tracks are especially siiiick. You really are willing to license some to the channel for use?_

  
  
  


_Actually, I would like to try my hand at producing new ones. As long as you keep my contact information private_.

  
  
  


_That works fine, too._

_Here is a download link for the next video we have queued up - we’ll have a whole series on him actually. Still needs some good sounds to go with it!_

  
  


A double click reveals the subject as his fellow top high school player who is already playing professionally, mustard hair now gleaming soft gold.

He ends up rewatching the five-minute video over a hundred times.

_Just to understand the editing rhythm_ , Kiyoomi convinces himself after the 34th time.

It’s terrible irony, how he falls for the way Miya Atsumu adjusts to each of his spikers from the perspective of a laptop screen. He recalls quite a few matches and training camps in their linked history, most of the memories marred by either the distortion of a net between them, or Kiyoomi’s intense focus on the self. Yet within these condensed, digestible segments, Miya’s limbs dance with elaborate flair, his tosses unflinching as they fly towards their intended targets. In all his power, he is somewhere between a god of deliverance and a demon gifting doom, yet his bizarre crouches still bow to a spherical holy grail. 

Occasionally, the slow motion parts reduce the speed of a grin, zoom into the lick of a protruding tongue - and a completely different kind of music blasts in Kiyoomi’s ears.

_Demon, definitely a demon._

He shakes himself conscious during those times, and returns to layering pitches upon lower registers, connecting chords and beats while imagining himself connecting Miya’s tosses.

The channel uploads the final file less than 48 hours later, causing a small cyber mayhem in the hours thereafter.

  
  


**Miya Atsumu | MSBY Black Jackals Highlights (2015)**  
1,775,802 Views  
  
Supercut of Miya Atsumu’s setter prowess during his rookie season!  
  
**Footage © DAZN**

 **Music:** Toss to Me [Inari Mix] (Original Track) by DJ SKS

  
Kiyoomi watches sourly as the viewcount runs amuck with each refresh, finding some annoyance in the setter’s popularity. But to his surprise, a disproportionate amount of the comments - including the top voted - solely focus on how perfectly the music suits this collection of clips. He relishes in the fact that his background insertion can somehow compete with such blatant visual displays of power, and motivation brews.

_Please send only Miya Atsumu videos for me to score. His playing style fits my sound well._

  
  


==

Five years since that first endeavor, and the subject of videos Kiyoomi had watched a thousand times more than necessary is here again, masked up and dressed in hues too bright for the underground ambiance. Upon the bar he leans against, a drink slides into his hands every so often, clearly not at his own expense. Each time, he raises bottle or glass once towards his benefactor, and a second time towards the DJ booth before leaning into an obscure corner. The mask lowers, but an identity remains concealed as he consumes, and his eventual reemergence is void of any leftover liquid. 

An irritating number of others approach him in between, even dare to tempt him onto the dance floor with pliant moves. But the incubus declines easily each time with slyly creased eyes, happily playing his part as the star in this new highlight reel, titled “Failed Flirtations.”

Kiyoomi feels like he’s competing for YouTube views and attention once more, the stealth hooks of his music being pit against Miya’s natural, inexplicable appeal. He’s not staring - he swears he isn’t - but there is no other explanation as to how every time a new drink is swallowed, he somehow catches the sheen of alcohol across lips that are promptly hidden again.

_Demon._

He flashes an exposed middle finger towards Miya’s next salute.

When the ambush comes the next day, Kiyoomi is, as it always is when it comes to Miya Atsumu, only half-prepared.

“It IS you in the club, isn’t it?” His teammate circles him outside the practice gym, steps fluid and foxlike. Honey eyes now scrutinize his tall frame like a statue in a museum, not intending to worship but to appraise. "Gotta say - the fingerless gloves are a nice touch."

Behind a plain mask, he hisses back. " _You're_ going to be fingerless if this gets out, Miya."

“Not a good idea.” The setter splays all ten of his digits outward before retracting them again. "I kinda need these to toss to ya. Imagine what our coaches would say if ya chopped ‘em off??"

The faux innocence inspires a bout of nausea, and Kiyoomi swings his duffle around violently, forcing the other to step back and fulfill the wish for more personal space.

" _Why_ do you keep showing up there?" _I know you go to dive bars, not dance clubs._

A mischievous smirk appears, as if reacting to those unspoken thoughts. "The whispers are all over Osaka, Omi-kun. That club is _the_ place to be now because of ya, or did ya not realize?" As usual, Miya’s compliments somehow sound insulting. "Ah, the perils of getting too good at your sidegig..."

"I'm just going to quit then." He shoves both hands into pockets and strides forward.

"That's not like ya." His teammate gives chase, as well as two unwanted tokens from his thoughts. “I _know_ ya, Omi-kun. Ya see things to da end.”

The acknowledgement, to Kiyoomi’s displeasure, both thrills and irritates him, conflicting his mind with whether or not Miya’s keen observation is a positive.

“So what the _hell_ do you want?” He decides that it is not, and bites. “If you plan on throwing me to the wolves at the next press conference, _go ahead_.”

“Of course I won’t. Yer setlists are way too good for the secret to get out this soon.” The insufferable one steps directly into his path. “I just want yer schedule - so I’m not runnin’ over there on nights without ya.”

“You don’t even _dance_.”

“I still like ta listen, or watch. And for the record, I _do_ dance.”

  
  
  


_III. Beat Match_ _  
_ _Track 1 = Track 2_

  
  


“MSBY Black Jackals.”

Kiyoomi announces placidly when his college coaches request his first choice team in the professional league. The answer sparks surprise - the Jackals are above mediocre at best, and far outside of their assumed geographical comfort zone for Kiyoomi at worst - but they never question the decision, and only send their soon-to-be-former-star-player all the tryout details.

The night before, he rewatches the compilation videos again, committing the style and speed of Miya’s tosses to memory as his fingers tap to his own beats. He knows the refresher is likely unnecessary, as Miya seems to adjust to all his spikers with versatility, but he attributes the rewatch to mental preparation of a different kind, before their first in-person reunion in years.

He ends up only half-prepared.

“Sa-Ku-Sa Ki-Yo-Omi-kun.” The syllables punctuate from that devilish tongue, now coiling at the speed of reality rather than slow motion. Miya Atsumu in the flesh is crouching in front of him as Kiyoomi stretches, an intrigued gaze flicking from one end of his wide horizontal split to the other. The way he utters his name has such a consistent rhythm, and sounds so similar to his history teacher’s nugget of inspiration, that Kiyoomi wonders for a moment if his secret hobby has already been discovered.

“Mi-Ya.” He imitates cooly, and flattens his upper body against the ground, hoping that the position hides the flush that has likely dyed his entire face.

“Damn. Almost forgot how flexible ya are.” 

Kiyoomi lifts his head only slightly to bark back something about Inarizaki and forgotten memories, but all words fade into white noise as he gets an accidental view of Miya’s thighs in all their unholy glory. From up close, they are straight out of the utopian anatomy illustrations in his college biology textbook, structured muscle augmenting in all the right places.

“So, how would ya like me?”

_In the locker room, preferably in only a very short towel._ “ _Excuse me_?” His waist snaps the rest of him upward, nearly knocking the top of his skull against the jaw that refuses to stop moving.

“How would ya like me to _toss to ya_ during your tryout?” Miya barely flinches, and curves another smile into the palm now supporting his chin. So cunning, _so_ keen to satisfy.

_Oh_. Kiyoomi frowns, and immediately starts to regret all his personal decisions - particularly his choice of team. “At least 60 cm above the net, if you can.”

“‘Course I can.” The setter lifts back into a standing position. “I’ll make sure they like ya.”

The footsteps moving away are devoid of rhythm, the disparity irritating Kiyoomi to no end.

As Miya promises, tryouts are a breeze, but the weeks following don’t exactly go the way Kiyoomi imagines. The setter is loud, and obnoxious, and everything terrible hidden underneath the euphemisms of the highlight videos. He leaks horrendous jokes like the unfixable faucet in their outdoor sink, making Kiyoomi question any attraction he had to the man, and wishing he could delete feelings as easily as a poorly marked cue point.

But even worse, Kiyoomi struggles with the increasing amount of fans that now run up to him nonstop, not minding his need for space as they ask for autographs or shove unwanted gifts into his chest. It’s far too contrary to the virtual interactions with followers of his music, where nothing tangible is exchanged beyond thrums of sound and letters on a screen.

“If ya dun’ want ’em, I’ll take ‘em.” Miya speaks up behind him one day after yet another fan encounter, before snatching the plush stitched in Kiyoomi’s image - curly black hair and all - from his pinched fingers.

“It’s kinda cute.” He toys with the gift before abruptly gesturing at his ears. “What are ya listenin’ to?”

Kiyoomi nearly forgets that his headphones are currently dousing him in the latest track from Ocula, its traversing melodic lines just soft enough to allow him to hear nearby conversations. The notes play against the view of Miya’s curious expression, making his intentions far more innocent than they likely are.

“None of your business.” He shoves the cushioned speakers against his ears to further conceal any sounds that may escape, even though he already knows they won’t.

“Music sounds better when shared, y’know.” The suggestion emerges behind him as Kiyoomi walks off.

He knows those words are right, that there is immense satisfaction in how anonymous figures appreciate his work on the social media platforms of the world. Outside of his volleyball career, he has secretly continued to mix and compose within the confines of his apartment, but another stage now looms in the visible distance, especially as the comments on his Soundcloud also become dense with a specific type of desire.

_I wanna dance to this one._

_How do we get clubs to play this??_

His mind strings together those words into ideas, into opportunity - a chance for him to improve, even if a little, in engaging with environments outside of the court. Before long, he is looking up the nightlife hotspots of Osaka, scouring through dozens of reviews, and sussing out the locations of DJ booths relative to their crowds. He narrows it down to five, then three.

The shortlist lingers in his mind as he records himself conducting a mix session at home, compiling both popular and original tracks with the camera only pointing towards his hands. The eventual file travels from his secondary email, landing into the inboxes of the three clubs that had passed his investigation.

One by one, the responses fly in, each more affirmative than the next.

As with volleyball, Kiyoomi prioritizes the message from his top choice.

_Trial run, next Tuesday night?_

He glances at the MSBY calendar: no match until Friday. So he accepts, with a stipulation that he goes first once the doors open. There is still daily practice, and a late night is never an option.

On Tuesday, he sneaks away right after the last drills and ducks into the subways, carrying his laptop, cleaning wipes, and a rickety heart. The double doors of the club entrance prove daunting, but they transform into heavenly gates once it opens to the vast, warehouse-like space. Behind his mask, Kiyoomi bows greetings to the staff and owner, who ushers him upstairs to the secluded area that would shelter him for the next few hours - and possibly more. He wipes down the deck thoroughly, not missing a single crevice between any sliders or knobs.

That night, the rich texture of his melodies drift over a captivated crowd for the first time, soothing bodies and souls alike. To his relief, the experience proves fulfilling rather than unnerving, and his elevated, singular presence triumphantly overrides the taxing energies below. There are a few technical glitches, and one badly looped transition between two tracks, but the clubgoers seem more than pleased by the time his novice session concludes.

The staff never ask for his real name, but he is still invited back. Once, twice, then Kiyoomi stops counting and simply immerses in the many dreamscapes he creates. Under the cover of dusk, he removes his cocoon of jerseys and finger tapes, and dons the enigmatic colors of another uniform that also drives a crowd berserk. He is no god, but he guides audience after audience into paradise, and it’s a wondrously different kind of ecstasy than a point scored.

==

On the demon’s third visit, he taunts him openly, brazenly.

Miya still listens, and watches, but does far more. The mask stays on, but invitations to the dance floor are finally accepted, and Kiyoomi’s eyes battle between watching his screens and tracking that blond mane in the crowd. The arrowed tail is fully out now, swinging along to the undulations of its attached body, ensnaring the lust of all who come across his path.

He _does_ dance, _oh, does he dance_ \- in tantalizing moves and grooves that still somehow appear natural upon his giant frame. Kiyoomi’s mouth dries at the sight of those sexy - no, _intriguing_ snaps of a hip against percolating synth bass, the bodyrolls that glide along to melancholic buildups of his own design. His fingers begin to tap and adjust with subconscious will, changing the order of his setlist so that the BPM will stay in its rapid pace, a relentless drive that turns all its riders towards savagery.

Miya throws his head back, eyes shut and neck extended, surrendering to the wild persona being towed out of him by the force of a crescendo.

For once, Kiyoomi feels like a deity in complete control. But he is also the one out-of-reach, forced to savor this turbulence of his own making from a distance. He dreads the desire that pools within him, that aberrant want to join a mob for the first time.

More bodies begin to congregate around the new centerpiece of the club, and he finally snatches his attention away - and keeps it away from the rest of his session. Music may sound better when shared, but other things certainly don’t fall under the same vein.

And thus, the night ends without him playing further audience.

As with countless times before, Kiyoomi sneaks out a side door known only to staff at the club, mere seconds from turning into another wraith of the night. But the transformation halts on this evening, cut off by another waiting presence leaning against the bricks.

“How the hell do you know about this exit?” He clutches his belongings, incredulous.

Miya smiles, lips thinning in the shadows. “I asked the bartender.”

_Dammit, Yumi_ . “You mean you _flirted_ with the bartender until she told you.”

“Even if I flirted, ya dun think she would’ve noticed who I’m _actually_ interested in?” A bushy eyebrow rises in challenge, and Kiyoomi fails to find countering words. 

Suddenly, the captivating visuals of Miya dancing remerge, and refuse to eject themselves from his head. He shudders at not only the temptation, but also the prospect of becoming just another segment in Miya’s collection of failed flirtations.

“Come _on_ , Omi-kun.” Unaware of the inner tribulations taking place, Miya tilts his head in the direction of the subway station. “Just wanted to head back with ya, since we’re goin’ to the same place.”

“This...better not become routine.” He finally squeezes out words of displeasure.

The blond grins again, making no promises before leading the way.

“Ya know, Yumi says she likes ya, and doesn’t think ya should be so lonely up there in the DJ booth all the time.” He yammers on as they walk. “Little does she know how many others you’re constantly surrounded by, when yer not at the club…”

“I enjoy being alone up there.” Kiyoomi asserts. “You should know that better than anyone.”

“Alone with yer music...” Miya turns around, eyes glimmering with mystery. “Somethin’ that touches ya, but ya can’t touch back.”

Their pace doesn’t slow down, but their gazes lock together, communicating undertones even the deepest lyrics cannot convey.

“Hm.” For a brief, curious second, Miya’s lips shape into a pout. “I guess I know how that feels now, too.”

Kiyoomi also _feels,_ rather than hears, those cryptic words. His head quickly fills with the sentence on loop, each replay approaching a transition not between two tracks, but between the two of them.

The timestamp fails to move forward, as they don’t discuss the exchange again. The trips back home, however, do become routine. 

On those other trips - the ones involving the team bus - Miya also starts to squeeze next to him at every opportunity, until their juxtaposition becomes nearly unremarkable. Kiyoomi pretends he does not see the interested stares from fellow players whenever they settle into their two designated seats, and he ignores the whispers that ensue whenever the setter plugs his own headphones into the second jack of Kiyoomi’s laptop.

The first time Miya does it, it is with a smug grin.

“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” Kiyoomi grumbles, still reeling from his allowance of this new invasion.

“Because.” The tone is proud, though not arrogant. “Yer _sharin’_. So everything sounds even better now.”

They do, somehow, but Kiyoomi never admits it.

On the way back from Hiroshima, a sultry piece he had been experimenting on somehow meanders its way into the shuffle. As soon as the lulling tones begin to stack upon one another at timestamp 1:27, Miya has the audacity to reach over and pry open the cushion of his headphone.

“This one is a _jam_.” He whispers with vigor. “Ya gonna add it to the playlist this week?”

Puffs of air bat against the sensitive skin of his neck, and Kiyoomi prays that the shudders rocking through him are only imagined. “Maybe.”

“I’ll put on a show if ya do.”

“Please don’t.”

Two nights later, he does add it to the playlist, and he is treated to a show in the form of Miya giving a solo, seductive performance atop the bar counter. Yumi ends up screaming at patrons to stop throwing cash in his direction - _we’re not that kind of club, dammit_ \- but Kiyoomi finds it hard to blame them. Hard to blame, when his own mind is also swimming with thoughts of shoving Miya Atsumu against a wall, and letting that song vibrate through their joined bodies.

At the end of the sinful routine, Miya blows a kiss up towards the booth.

Kiyoomi flashes _two_ middle fingers back this time, but behind the mask, he grins, gratified - a god fully accepting his corruption.

  
  
  
  
_IV. Crossfade_ _  
_ _T r a c k 1 > > > > >>>>> Track 2 _

  
  
  


He is in Miya’s apartment, but he doesn’t recall - much less understand - why he had accepted the invitation. He’s also afraid to ask if there is a shrine somewhere where Miya worships himself, or communicates with hell. But the fanmade plush in Kiyoomi’s likeness is, for whatever reason, resting along a window sill, so perhaps he is the one who has been sacrificed.

They’re sitting at two ends of the couch, focused on their own laptops as they complete various online forms required for the Olympic team. There is indescribable honor to playing in front of a global audience, and Kiyoomi briefly wonders whether he would ever feel comfortable at events like Tomorrowland, to “play” in another way.

“Check this one out.” Miya shifts over without warning and unplugs his headphone jack. On his screen are no longer fillable PDF grids, but a pulsing visualization against a familiar website layout of text and thumbnails. A quick glance at the YouTube page reveals the video title - the latest remix from Lane 8, uploaded only fifteen minutes ago.

They listen together, heads bobbing to crisp high hat sounds paving the way for a series of ascending and descending notes. This is as habitual as all their other routines now: a toss to a spike, a dance that obeys a play button, a journey back from the nightlife district.

As the track builds towards climax, however, Kiyoomi’s eyes suddenly deviate from routine. They land upon the sidebar, with all its curated recommendations on open display. Sandwiched in the midst of other electronica songs and prank videos is a single one showcasing their sport - plucked from a particular channel that he is far too familiar with.

Kiyoomi knows what this means, and fears it.

“Do you...watch volleyball highlights a lot?” He asks softly against the booming apex of the piece, half wishing that Miya would not even hear the question.

But of course, they’re sitting far too close together for the speakers to overtake his voice, and Kiyoomi watches as Miya’s jaw falls agape, as if struggling to find response for the first time in his life.

At least eight more bars pass before the setter moves again, turning his head at the speed of a carefully manipulated jog wheel, seeking that matching tempo between two misaligned tracks.

“Yah, for years.” His expression is neutral, but flickers of hellfire dance in his eyes. “I even watch my own. Not ‘cus I’m vain - more ta see what I need to adjust while playin’.”

_Years_ . _My own_. “Oh.”

“Have ta admit.” And there, again, appears the devilish grin. “Got kinda irritated a while back, when more people commented about how good the music on my videos were, instead of complimenting my tosses. But, I was only irritated ‘cus they were right.”

Kiyoomi inhales sharply, daggers of air dragging through his windpipe and stifling his throat.

With the conclusion of the song waning into the distance, Atsumu moves to click on a button on his browser, revealing a long list of bookmarks. The very top reads “Soundcloud - DJ SKS,” bold letters printing a marquee for an upcoming performance.

“Tried ta find out who ya were back then, but the guy who runs the highlights channel didn’t even know, and wouldn’t tell me how ta reach ya.” 

Kiyoomi knows he is blushing furiously now. Only this time, there is nowhere to hide.

“When I randomly searched for the name again a few months ago, the club’s old guest DJ announcement from last year popped up.” Miya shifts his torso, leaning even closer. “Turns out, ya were next to me all along.”

The final statement feels far too literal, yet Kiyoomi does not move away. He thinks back to unexpected visits, to discreetly worded hints - but remains unable to speak. YouTube’s autoplay has jumped to another melody, so for the time being, he hopes that the new notes can help postpone his response.

Those plans are thwarted, however, when Miya pushes his laptop shut, ridding them of all distraction.

“Why’d ya make all those tracks for my videos, Omi-kun?” The interrogation is subdued, playful, as if Miya already knows all the answers. “And only _my_ videos…‘Inari Mix’ made even ‘Samu laugh, by the way.”

With little excuse to continue his silence, Kiyoomi finally finds a voice. “I was paid to license them, do I need another reas---”

Miya shifts closer again, this time resting a forearm and chin on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. His expression seems almost angelic, and Kiyoomi wonders if such an illusion is the side effect of yet another demonic spell.

“Why’d ya come all the way to Osaka to play volleyball, Omi-kun?”

_I was paid to...?_ He wants to repeat the same answer, that simple excuse concealing truths like what the masks accomplish for their nighttime identities. But what rests ahead of him is as clear as a pre-set playlist, the unique characteristics of each track known not only to his ears, but within every cell of his being.

“I came for you.” He confesses, composing blunt lyrics to this new song. “To find out if your tosses would really be that in sync with me.”

“And?”

“Yah. They are.”

Miya grins again, beaming pride in some divine victory. Kiyoomi holds his breath as a teasing finger moves upward, eventually curling along a strand of his hair. Soon, it moves in a circular motion, looping around and around to a languid rhythm. Though no more music plays, there is a thrumming of deep bass marking that layer of tension within the room - not quite like heartbeats, but a darker, richer sound, reserved for melodic lines about to expand into something profound. 

“Yer workin’ tomorrow night, right?” 

“Yes.” He speaks instead of nods, unwilling to disturb those gentle tugs at his scalp.

“Invite me up there when ya come on.” The demon requests, _croons_. “Wanna show ya somethin’.”

==

He watches Miya weave through the crowd, staunch goal seemingly in mind as he approaches the bouncer guarding the stairs. A questioning glance from the suited man darts up, seeking his approval, which Kiyoomi gives.

And so calamity ascends, permitted rare entrance to a sanctum, and Kiyoomi wonders whether the universe might be forced to create balance through his own imminent downfall.

“Heya, Omi-kun.”

He feels entranced by the greeting alone, its short syllables trapping him between a leather-clad physique and the fixtures awaiting his manipulation. They’ve been close in proximity before, but not like this - not within this sacred altar sheltering their alternate selves.

“Hey, _akuma_.”

Miya smiles at the moniker - demon - behind his mask, and retrieves a USB drive from his jacket pocket.

“Here.” He tosses it - much lighter than how he usually handles a ball.

“What’s this?” Kiyoomi’s receiving instincts kick in, but thankfully his hands catch, rather than bump.

“A song we both know well.” Miya winks. “Just think ya should play it tonight - maybe...right after this one.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course.” A single stride, and the distance between them is halved. “But the longer ya wait, the longer I gotta stay here.”

“I could always just throw you off.” Kiyoomi mocks, but plugs in the USB anyway.

[ _RÜFÜS DU SOL - Innerbloom_ | 9:38 | ⊴ ▶️ ⊵ | ](https://youtu.be/IA1liCmUsAM?t=46)

_Ah. This._ He cues it immediately, before lowering the ongoing track’s levels one-by-one and steering its tempo to gradually match 120 BPM. The changeover is as sleek as the shifts in that first sustained chord, a tranquil introduction barely hinting at the percussive beats that follow.

“What now?” He turns back around, already rendered somewhat tipsy by those heavy synths laced with sensuous overtones.

“Now, _Kiyoomi_ , we dance.”

_Feels like I'm waiting_

_Like I'm watching_

**_Watching you for love_ **

_Dreams, where I am fading_

_Fading_

The hymn draws them into one another, heaven and hell in a serene collision that triggers mercy rather than apocalypse. Their arms find belonging within this reawakened earth - crossing at the small of Kiyoomi’s back, wrapped around Miya’s nape - and the fluid movements of their conjoined bodies script brand-new meanings for idolatry. It’s a sinful communion, this dance, performed in full-view of the worshipers below. But it’s also salvation, a private revival of two entities bound between their authorities and duties, and now bound to each other.

Kiyoomi is a god corrupted, but a lover redeemed. He accepts all that Miya Atsumu has to offer, has tempted him with for nights - no, _years_ \- on end. It’s in the swing of a hip, the rub of two foreheads, the delicious friction of thigh-against-thigh. Vibrating chords spur him onward, assuring him that there is no movement too debauched, no touch too forbidden.

[ But soon, a virtuous moment arrives, birthed by the waterskip of staccato tones ](https://youtu.be/IA1liCmUsAM?t=318).

“Ya know how this next part goes, right?”

“In the song? Or for us?”

Miya lowers one mask, then the other, a single fingertip dividing skin and lips in its duet of downward glides. 

“Both.”

And ah, no, there is no track quite like this. Their hymn, their anthem. The kiss abides by the mesmerizing notes that bellow from the trumpet of an archangel, but it is also the most mortal act of love known to man. The dreamy rhythm of their tongues set a tempo already determined by past generations, yet it is also their own, clocking with sets and spikes and pulsating refrains. Together, they become two tracks sounding back and forth in the midst of overlay, each reverb always finding its perfect echo.

Kiyoomi knows he will loop this part until the end of his session, until the end of time.

The demon - now atoned - pulls away, tenderly, briefly.

_If you want me. If you need me. I'm yours._ He mouths the final lyrics, soundless but sincere.

"You're so fucking cheesy, _Atsumu_." Kiyoomi traps him again between the leather of fingerless gloves, and exorcises him for good.

==

The madness begins long before they escape the club, and Kiyoomi can only blame himself for neglecting the flashes of phone cameras throughout their rendezvous.

Atsumu is already scrolling through social media as they run down the steps leading to the secret side entrance, snorting at every new blurry photo and video that appears under the #DJSKS hashtag.

_#DJSKS MAKING OUT WITH A MYSTERY MAN!!_

Kiyoomi spies only one caption and groans, frustration ricocheting throughout the narrow staircase. One caption, and it’s already too much to bear.

“Good thing these places are dark.” Atsumu laughs, ever the contrarian. "But - people are gonna figure out it’s us sooner or later."

They burst through the metal door at ground level, both relieved when no other humans come into view.

“This better not mean...that I’ll be expected to...produce songs about you.” Kiyoomi snarls out between shortened breaths. But even without such expectations, he knows that his songs will no longer beat to a single rhythm, just the annoying constant that Atsumu embodies.

“Would ya?” Said annoyance wiggles both his brows in interest, and an arm extends in invitation.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

With those words, Kiyoomi slips a gloved hand into the affectionate grasp, and they return to one of their usual routines, now with that one minor change in detail. The club might be their dreamscape - their _escape_ \- but perhaps, he thinks, true paradise still exists wherever they are headed now. Those next tracks in this setlist remain a mystery, unproduced, but as Atsumu pulls him along the bustling streets of Osaka, his laugh the best music of many nights to come - Kiyoomi starts to hear the traces of an intro.

“Come on, Omi-- _DJ_ _Omi_!”

  
“Don’t you _dare_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Here is a playlist of what I envision to be DJ SKS’ top 12 (+1) favorite tracks](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_b1VuQivKFQACCEiKdNfyS7spLtD9-si)! Definitely not necessary to listen while reading - hence why I put it here at the end - but they could set a vibe if you ever want to reread :) My personal favorites are 2. Lane 8 - No End In Sight / Outro, 12. Lane 8 & Massane - And We Knew It Was Our Time, and of course, the +1/13. RÜFÜS DU SOL - Innerbloom
> 
>  **ETA:** [Here's a Spotify version of the playlist at request](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3mTQ0qvfrF0vr24INRSF7s)! It's just missing one track: 11. SRTW - We Were Young (Sascha Kloeber Remix)
> 
> If you ever want music recs in this genre or just want to yell about SakuAtsu, [come hit me up on Twitter](http://twitter.com/_mika60_). [Here is also the fic graphic](https://twitter.com/_mika60_/status/1302398877493063683). Thanks again for reading!!
> 
>  **ETA (September 10th, 2020):** HUGE thank you to @goatcrown for [this amazing fanart of DJ SKS!!!](https://twitter.com/goatcrown/status/1304195505237364736)


End file.
